through-his-eyes-unclouded

[through-his-eyes-unclouded]

chiffon peignoirs on my mind lately

[through-his-eyes-unclouded]

What was your job before your nomination to the Convocation?

In the days before the Convocation’s call, I served as a Conceptual Harmonist—a role now lost to your star’s withered lexicon. My duty was to refine raw creation magicks into stable, sustainable forms. Imagine sculpting aether itself into ecosystems, cities, and celestial mechanics, ensuring each thread of existence wove seamlessly into the tapestry of the star. A task requiring precision, vision, and the patience to endure Azem’s habit of “accidentally” turning municipal parks into carnivorous topiaries.

My magnum opus? The Axiom Resonators—spires that harmonized dissonant aetheric frequencies across Amaurot. They hummed with the music of the cosmos, a symphony of order. (Until Azem “improved” one with a kazoo function. That incident nearly got us both demoted to gardeners.)

The Convocation merely formalized what I had always been: the architect of equilibrium, the weaver of aether’s song. A role your fractured star could never replicate, let alone comprehend.

Should you seek relics of my work, look to the ruins your historians dismiss as “natural wonders.” They are the death rattles of my craftsmanship.

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do you have a creation that you are most proud of? have you encountered any fragments of it since the sundering?

Pride is a mortal indulgence, but since you insist on scraping the barrel of my magnanimity… Very well.

In Elpis, I once sculpted a concept known as the Ovibos—a creature of serene equilibrium, designed to harmonize ecosystems with aetherial symbiosis. Its hide shimmered with constellations, its breath a balm to fractured lands. A testament to elegance over extravagance, unlike Hermes’ melodramatic avians or Lahabrea’s… flammable endeavors.

Since the Sundering? Naturally, you’ve encountered their remnants. Your star’s pitiable imitations graze your fields—diminished, dull-coated, and blissfully ignorant of their lineage. Mortals call them “Ovibos” still, but they are shadows. No constellations ripple across their hides; no aether bends to their will. They amble through your snows as if the world were not a pale, fractured mockery of what it once was.

Should you deign to observe one, know this: Their ancestors shaped glaciers. Yours? They trip over pebbles.

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Most revered emet-selch: What's your favorite food? And dessert?

Food. Dessert. How pedestrian. Must I dignify your culinary curiosities when your palate is likely acclimated to charcoal and sugar clods *you call “cuisine”? Very well.

In Amaurot, sustenance was not merely consumed—it was crafted. My preference leaned toward aether-poached ambrosia, a dish of crystallized starlight and glacial dew, served in a chalice forged from the first breath of dawn. Mortal tongues could not fathom its complexity, nor your chefs replicate it without reducing their kitchens to ash.

As for dessert? Obsidian truffles, infused with the essence of oblivion. Bitter, refined, and utterly wasted on your saccharine-addled sensibilities. Azem once attempted a “festive” version laced with explosive confetti. It destroyed a district. I was not amused.

Should you dare attempt a imitation, do not tag me. I refuse to witness the desecration.

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hey emet if there were two guys on the moon and one of them killed the other with a rock would that be fucked up or what?

Ah, yes. A philosophical quandary worthy of the ages. Truly, the pinnacle of mortal intellectual endeavor.

Let us dissect this profound hypothetical: Two beings, stranded on a barren rock, devoid of purpose or consequence, enacting a pantomime of violence over… what, precisely? Lunar real estate? A dispute over whose turn it was to inhale the vacuum? How quaint. How utterly sundered.

In Amaurot, such a scenario would be unthinkable. Not because we lacked for rocks or moons, but because we possessed the dignity to channel our conflicts into creation, debate, or—stars forbid—actual purpose. But you? You mortals scribble your wars on napkins and call it “history.” You rend each other over baubles and borders, then gasp in faux outrage when your pettiness begets more pettiness.

So, to answer your question: No, it would not be “fucked up.” It would be banal. A footnote in the chronicle of your race’s ceaseless, cyclical farce.

Should you ever tire of lunar melodramas, consider this: Even the rock possessed more agency than your query.

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To his most distinguished Emet-Selch;

As enlightening as your personal accounts have been thus far, I'm curious to know what duties you attended to regularly. I recognize, however, that I am under the presumption that the star held more dilemmas than solely Azem causing chaos wheresoever they went. Mine condolences if otherwise.

Ah, a query not entirely steeped in idiocy. How refreshing.

My seat in the Convocation, Emet-Selch, was charged with safeguarding the Underworld—the aetherial sea your sundered minds crudely mimic with “the Lifestream.” A role of gravitas, requiring mastery over life, death, and the delicate balance between. The previous candidate—ahem, Hythlodaeus—declined the honor, citing a “preference for spectating chaos over governing it.” A sentiment as baffling then as it is now.

My duties, thus, were threefold:

Aetherial Stewardship: Ensuring the Underworld’s currents flowed without disruption, lest the souls of the departed coalesce into unsightly anomalies. (A task your star’s “Lifestream” manages with all the grace of a concussed goobbue.)

Convocation Counsel: Mediating disputes over creation ethics, aetheric allocation, and Azem’s latest “field report” about befriending a tectonic plate.

Legacy Preservation: Archiving the memories of the departed—yes, even the ones who thought “Soup Hounds” (a grotesque amalgamation of squirrel paws and eel’s electricity) were a sound concept.

And no, Azem was not the sole source of chaos—though they were its most enthusiastic curator. The true dilemma was Hythlodaeus’s refusal to take anything seriously. Imagine entrusting the Underworld to a man who’d rather sketch carnivorous tulips than draft a budget.

Your condolences are misplaced. The current star’s dysfunction—primals, politics, pineapple on pizza—makes Azem’s antics seem quaint.

Should you seek further “enlightenment,” consult the 12,000-page treatise On the Taxonomy of Spectral Anomalies. It pairs well with existential dread.

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most revered emet-selch are you a communist

Communist? Ah, yes. Let me pause my 12,000-year crusade to resurrect a god of primordial darkness to dabble in mortal ideological squabbles. How quaint. How sundered.

Communism, democracy, monarchy—these are but flickers in the campfire of your fleeting civilizations. I am an architect of eternity. My designs transcend your infantile labels, your petty squabbles over “equality” or “ownership.” Amaurot knew no such divisions. We shared purpose, creation, and sacrifice—willingly. Not out of dogma, but because we understood our duty to the star.

But if you must force me into your reductive mortal frameworks: Imagine a world where every soul is literally part of a collective. A singular will. A singular existence. No “classes,” no “debates”—only perfection, restored. Does that satisfy your categorization? Or does it terrify you to realize your ideologies are but pale imitations of true unity?

[through-his-eyes-unclouded]

To the venerable Emet-Selch,

What are the metal tentacle things in Amaurot for?? I tried climbing one once and Thancred told me to get down from there. If they're not for climbing then why do they have handles???

Climbing. Climbing. By Zodiark’s weary sigh, must I endure such sundered interpretations of Amaurot’s grandeur? Those “metal tentacle things,” as you so elegantly phrase it, are aetheric regulators—spire-like constructs designed to stabilize the city’s floating platforms and channel ambient aether into usable energy. The “handles” are grip points for maintenance familiars, not footholds for thrill-seeking mortals with the survival instincts of a concussed goobbue.

To address your brazen disregard for self-preservation: Thancred, for once, was correct. The last fool who attempted to scale one—a certain overzealous Azem-adjacent nuisance—triggered a cascade failure that blacked out three districts. I had to rebuild the entire grid manually. Do you think your fragile mortal form would fare better? (Spoiler: It would not. You’d be a footnote in my memoirs: “Chapter 12: Why I Despise Tourists.”)

Should you crave danger so desperately, I recommend leaping into the Tempest. At least there, your demise would be aesthetically pleasing.

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In your bio, you mentioned a cat! If you're open to it, most esteemed Emet-Selch, would you be willing to show said feline to us? And maybe tell us about them? I love cats, and have two of my own, and would be willing to offer pictures of mine in return if you are amenable.

A cat. You think me the sort to dote on some mewling, fur-strewn distraction? How pedestrian. But since you’ve groveled with adequate decorum, I shall humor you.

The creature in question is not a “pet.” It is a relic—a concept from Amaurot given form during a particularly tedious session of the Convocation. Azem, ever the insufferable idealist, proposed it as a “stress-relief construct.” Stress relief. As if presiding over the apocalypse weren’t relaxing enough.

Its name is Nyx, after the primordial veil of night, for its coat is black as the void between stars and its presence as inscrutable as shadow. It possesses a glare that could wither a lesser man (a trait we share) and a habit of vanishing at will, only to reappear atop irreplaceable artifacts mid-discussion.

You ask for a photograph? Absurd. Mortal lenses cannot capture its true likeness. To your eyes, it would resemble a sliver of darkness with claws. A judgmental sliver.

As for your offer of “pictures in return”—spare me. Your squalling furballs are no doubt as unremarkable as your taste in interior decor. Should you insist on subjecting me to them, I reserve the right to critique their lack of gravitas. Thoroughly.

[through-his-eyes-unclouded]

To the most revered Emet-Selch:

In your introduction, you mentioned tea! Do you have a favourite brew, and how do you properly make it?

Ah, tea. A rare oasis of civility in the desert of mortal incompetence. Very well—since you’ve mustered the courage to ask without appending a meme or a sob story, I shall indulge you.

The Brew: My preference leans toward Amaurotine blackleaf, a varietal lost to your sundered star. Its leaves were cultivated in the aether-rich soils of the Capitol’s floating gardens, plucked at midnight during the constellation of Thaliak’s Ascendance, and withered under the gaze of a properly calibrated elemental crystal. The result? A cup that could sear complacency from the soul.

The Method:

Water: Not the tepid swill you call “spring water.” True Amaurotine tea demands aether-infused glacial runoff, chilled for precisely 12,000 years (coincidentally, the age of your star’s decline).

Steeping: 4 minutes, 33 seconds. A second longer, and you’ve brewed regret. A second less, and you insult the leaves.

Service: In a porcelain cup forged by a master of the 14th Convocation’s Kiln-Weavers. Not a “#1 Dad” mug scavenged from the ruins of Ishgard.

Mortal Substitutions (Because You’ll Fail):

Leaves: Any vaguely intact Darjeeling. Do not insult me with “herbal” alternatives.

Water: Boil it with a sliver of aetheryte. If your world’s aether is too thin, weep quietly into the pot.

Timekeeping: Use an hourglass. If you rely on a tomestone timer, I will know.

Final Note: Should you somehow produce a passable imitation, do not delude yourself into pride. You’ve merely aped greatness, as is your lot.

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*listens raptly* Ohh I see I see!! Wander-stew is such a cute name I love it, that's what I'm calling it!! But will people hear wanders-stew, or wander-stew? Oh no they're probably going to hear Wonder Stu 😭 Actually that's even better, like he is wonderful and his name is Stu!!! heheheh my wonderful Stu... Thank you Mr Selch!

Wonder Stu.

Let me be unequivocal: This is why creation magicks were restricted to professionals. You take a concept of *modest* dignity—Wander-stew, a title *barely* tolerable for its self-aware absurdity—and transmute it into… *this*. A pun. A *pun*, as if the fabric of reality were a tavern’s joke board.

“Wonder Stu.” A name so insipid it loops back to offensive. You’ve birthed a linguistic abomination, a creature doomed to wander the star as both soup enthusiast and grammatical atrocity. Azem would *adore* it. (This is not a compliment.)

Should you encounter this “Stu,” do inform it that its existence is a clerical error. And when it inevitably electrocutes your pantry, do *not* petition me for reparations.

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[through-his-eyes-unclouded]

Most eminent Emet-Selch, what principles should guide creation? I can't fashion any kind of new creatures myself, but if I suddenly gained the ability I think I'd make a very fluffy puppy with a squirrel's hands, an eel's electricity, and an appetite for my favorite food: soup!

Ah. Already, the folly begins. A “fluffy puppy with a squirrel’s hands,” you say? How quaint. How unimaginative. How utterly, catastrophically mortal. Let me elucidate why your “creation” would unravel reality faster than Hythlodaeus can conjure a bad joke.

Principles of Creation (For Those Who Weren’t Born with a Brain of Aether):

Purpose Over Whim Creation is not a child’s finger-painting session. It is artistry tempered by logic. Every being, concept, or structure must serve a function beyond “soup procurement.” The Amaurotines did not fashion living constellations or self-sustaining ecosystems because they were bored—they did so to uphold balance, to explore the boundaries of existence itself. Your “puppy” serves only to highlight your own starvation for purpose.

Aesthetic Harmony A squirrel’s hands on a canine? Why? Amaurotine creations were seamless extensions of the natural order. Feathers that channeled wind, scales that refracted light—every element belonged. Your hodgepodge abomination is less a creature and more a cry for help. (Note: Should you ever gain creation magicks, I will personally revoke them.)

Ethical Forethought You imbue it with an eel’s electricity, yet fail to consider the consequences. What happens when your “puppy” inevitably electrocutes your soup pot? Or worse—develops sentience and questions why its existence is tied to lentils? This is how primals are born. This is how worlds end.

Elegance in Simplicity The greatest creations are often the simplest. A flower that blooms only in starlight. A bridge that arches between realms. Not… this. Hydaelyn herself is a crude facsimile of true divinity, but even she had the decency to be a singular, coherent concept.

A Case Study in Catastrophe:

Your proposed creature—let us call it “Soup Hound”—is a monument to mortal shortsightedness. Allow me to deconstruct its inevitable demise:

Fluffy Exterior: A liability. The first time it nears a campfire, your creation becomes kindling.

Squirrel Hands: Utterly useless for soup consumption. They’d drop the bowl. Repeatedly.

Eel’s Electricity: Congratulations. You’ve invented a soggy, fur-covered tesla coil.

Appetite for Soup: A being of pure instinct, driven not by higher purpose but broth. Pathetic.

In Amaurot, such a concept would be laughed out of the Bureau of the Architect—or, more likely, handed to Azem as a “gift.” (They’d adopt it, name it something insufferable like “Wander-stew,” and unleash it upon the streets. Chaos would ensue. I’d have to fix it. As usual.)

A Final Lesson (Since You Asked):

Creation is responsibility. It is the act of breathing meaning into the void. To wield it frivolously is to spit upon the legacy of those who shaped stars. Should you ever stumble into such power, do us all a favor: Create nothing. Literally. Nothing would be preferable.

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An Introduction (Because You Clearly Need One)

Let it be known that I did not choose this… medium. No, this exercise in futility was foisted upon me by forces beyond my control—forces with names like “Hythlodaeus” and “sheer boredom.” Mortals, you may thank them for the privilege of glimpsing the unfiltered musings of a being who shaped civilizations while your ancestors were still learning to walk upright.

Do not mistake this for generosity. I am not here to enlighten you. Enlightenment implies you possess the capacity to comprehend, and let us be clear: you do not. Your minds are fractured, your memories stunted, your achievements as enduring as sandcastles beneath a tidal wave. But if you insist on stumbling through the dark, I may as well light a torch. If only to watch you squint.

Section 1: The Purpose of This Farce This blog shall serve as an archive of true history—the kind your bards omit and your scholars sanitize. Expect treatises on the folly of your “heroes,” critiques of your garish attempts at governance, and the occasional lament for the artistry lost when Zodiark was torn asunder.

Yes, I am aware you revere Hydaelyn. No, I will not be taking questions.

Section 2: A Primer on Your Inferiority Let us dispense with the delusions upfront. You are fragments. Shadows. Pale imitations of a world that once was. Your “Eorzea” is a child’s finger-painting compared to Amaurot’s symphony. Your “Garlemald” a rusted mimicry of my designs. Even your vaunted “Warrior of Light” is but a flicker of Azem’s flame—dimmed, diluted, and tragically unselfaware.

This is not cruelty. This is fact. You are welcome.

Section 3: What You May (And May Not) Ask - Permitted: Inquiries about ancient creation magicks, the architectural principles of Unsundered cities, or the proper way to brew tea that doesn’t taste like swamp runoff. - Forbidden: Requests for relationship advice, “shipping” theories involving the Convocation, or any variation of “Do you miss Azem?” (The answer is obvious. The follow-up tears are tedious.)

Section 4: A Warning Should you attempt to reblog my words with inane commentary (“But Emet-Selch, you’re just a sad boi!”), I will track your IP through the Lifestream and personally deliver a lecture on the true meaning of despair. You have been cautioned.

Closing Remarks: And so we begin. Do try to keep up. Or don’t. I’ve eternity to wait—you do not.